


Tu M'appartiens

by whopackedthese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, French, Gentle, Honesty, M/M, Opening Up, Post-Coital, Sherstrade, Smoking, Talking, loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopackedthese/pseuds/whopackedthese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Greg inhaled the scent from Sherlock’s curly hair - cigarette smoke, that Italian aftershave he always wore, and a musky smell that Greg had quickly come to know as ‘Sherlock’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tu M'appartiens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NegativEvitageN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegativEvitageN/gifts).



> Tu m'appartiens is French and translates to 'You Belong With Me'. It is pronounced as 'tu me-PAT-tee-un'

‘My brother has an uncanny ability of knowing everything I do. It will take him five minutes at the very most to narrow down where I am, who I’m with and what we’re...doing,’ Sherlock said, his voice husky as he lay on his back in the lamplit glow of post-coital bliss in Lestrade’s bedroom. His hands had, gripped in them, Greg’s left hand and he was examining the calluses, scars and bitten-down nails that made up its features. He flicked his blue-grey eyes up and across to Greg, lying to his left with his head propped up on his right hand, elbow pushing hard into the soft pillow beneath it. 

Greg smiled at him and at the fact that, unclothed and bordering on sleepiness, he looked younger than his twenty-six years. Greg wasn’t sure if it were his baby-doll Cupid’s bow, or the way his face turned innocent when his eyes widened and his brows rose, or if it were simply the crazy feelings of love he was no longer able to suppress. ‘I couldn’t care less what your brother thinks,’ he told him and smiled as Sherlock smirked, making his young eyes crinkle in the corners. ‘Besides, what you do with your penis should be your choice.’ 

Sherlock coughed out a laugh and Greg was sure that he seemed to blush a little at the use of the word ‘penis’. ‘Mycroft doesn’t see it like that.’ Sherlock said, releasing Greg’s hand. ‘What Mycroft sees is me not focusing, me getting involved…’ 

‘Involved with what?’ Greg asked, drawing his arm in now it had been abandoned. 

Sherlock pursed his lips, ‘Anything that isn’t him.’ 

Greg’s brows rose, ‘You fuck your brother?’ 

Sherlock frowned deeply, ‘Oh, God! No - no, I do not have sex with...what line of thought does your brain take that you would immediately go to that?’ Sherlock's eyes flickered, his expression became suddenly stern and unreadable and Greg felt a little guilty. 

‘You said he didn’t like you being involved with anything but him,’ Greg half laughed, ‘I just assumed that that is what you meant. Don’t look at me like that,’ he laughed a little as Sherlock’s eyes bore into him. ‘I work for the Met, Sherlock - it’s my job to assume the worst.’ 

‘I do not have sexual intercourse with my brother.’ Sherlock insisted loudly and his palms into the mattress to push himself to sit up. He sat with his back propped against the headboard and pulled the sheets with him to cover his waist. ‘I just meant that Mycroft and I grew up with very little exposure to other people until we each went to secondary school; we spent a lot of time relying on one another at social events, keeping ourselves to ourselves. People are tedious and Mycroft still upholds that view today. If people don’t benefit you, so why bother?’ 

‘Cheers,’ Greg raised his eyebrows. 

‘I don’t mean you,’ Sherlock said quickly. ‘You know that I don’t so stop fishing for me to tell you I adore you in six different ways.’ Sherlock peered down and Greg smirked at him.

Sherlock was an anomaly him. The boy was young but mentally mature and grand and refined; he was a seasoned drug user but would be picky over the teabags you offered him; he used his brain in the sharpest of ways and then threw teenage strops; he had the face and hair of cherub and said the dirties things; he begged to be treated as an intellectual and showed his immaturity in his expressions. He was a contradiction of himself and it made Greg fall all the more in love with him. He could handle the brainbox attitude, he could handle the fussiness over the tea he drank, and he could absolutely handle the dirty talk. 

‘Your surname,’ Sherlock said after a brief spell of quiet fell and Greg hummed as a sign of attention. ‘Are you French? Because it’s a village - Lestrade - and the word itself means ‘raised platform’.’ Sherlock told him and then looked at him with his eyes turned lighter and more expectant. 

Greg smiled at the appearance of the younger side of Sherlock’s nature; the inquisitive mixing with the intelligent and boring into him through focused eyes. ‘Oui. Deuxième génération. Ma mère était de Paris,’ He smiled at Sherlock more brightly, wondering if French was one of the many wondrous things the boy had tucked away in that brain of his. Sherlock’s eyes shone back at him and, for a moment, Greg wondered if he’d caught him off guard and actually stumped his intelligence. ‘Oh! Vous ne parlez pas français!’ he declared triumphantly. 

‘Ne pas obtenir vos espoirs,’ Sherlock tutted and grinned. ‘Of course I speak French! My father’s mother was French, taught Mycroft and I a lot as children and we both took it upon ourselves to learn as we got older.’ Sherlock reached his hand out across Greg and waggled his wrist. ‘Give.’

Greg looked at the hand, then to his side at the dresser where Sherlock was indicating, and smiled to himself. _Cigarettes._ ‘Say please,’ he insisted. 

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, ‘I’ll find my own,’ he hummed, ‘They’re somewhere in the explosion of clothes that I presume used to be your bedroom floor.’ 

Greg shook his head and reached for the cigarettes and lighter. He sat up straight beside Sherlock and took out a cigarette for himself before he handed the box off to him. Once his was lit, he handed the lighter over too. ‘Have you ever been to France?’ Greg exhaled through his nose as he spoke. 

Sherlock shook his head as he set the items on the nightstand on his side of the bed. There was a photograph, held in a delicate silver frame, of Greg with his son. Sherlock eyed it for a moment before he slowly brought his head around. ‘No,’ he said absently and brought the cigarette to his lips. ‘You?’ he asked. 

Greg nodded, drawing lightly. ‘Um huh,’ he nodded. ‘Most summers with my Mum when I was small. My sister Eve and I used to play in the massive garden that surrounded our Gran’s house, where our mother grew up. It always looked so much nicer than Dorset or Weston.’ He recalled sadly. ‘We stopped going over when I was fourteen, Eve would have been about eleven, shortly before our Gran died.’ Sherlock watched the changes on Greg’s face as he spoke, able to appreciate the differing sounds of his voice as he grew a little more nostalgic. ‘Mum always spoke in French with Eve and me, which our Dad hated, but it helped us I think. Eve got an amazing job with some big firm, travelling back and forth to France every few weeks. She has a flat in Paris, always offered it to Angie and me but I’ve never been back.’ 

‘You should go,’ Sherlock said, ‘Take Luca.’ Greg didn’t like how his son’s name sounded on Sherlock’s tongue; he thought it sounded like Sherlock resented the child, and like he resented that Greg had had a life before him. 

Greg shook his head and reached for the ashtray that Sherlock had resting on his tummy. ‘Angie would never let me take him and honestly I don’t want to. My Gran isn’t there anymore, Mum’s buried here. There’s nothing in Paris that even means anything to me anymore.’ He stubbed out his cigarette before handing it back to the younger man. ‘Unless this is you hinting that you want me to take you on a romantic getaway?’ He teased with a laugh. 

Sherlock drew up his eyebrows as he inhaled the final pull on his cigarette. He blew the cloud of smoke into the air, ‘No, thank you.’ He discarded the ashtray on the nightstand. ‘I like it here just fine.’ 

‘Here in London?’ Greg asked, ‘Don’t tell me my posh little Sussex boy is going all city-slicker on me?’ he teased, poking his finger into Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock flinched from the touch. ‘I meant here.’ He clarified, ‘Right here, here in this house, in this room - in this bed.’ 

Greg smiled fondly. ‘I do, too,’ he agreed. ‘But you know as well as I do that this can’t last forever. Sooner or later the sun is going to rise and we’re both going to have to return to work and normal life.’ 

Sherlock made a face, ‘Can’t we just close the curtains and succumb to lethargy?’ 

Greg laughed lightly, ‘It’s tempting, but sadly not an option,’ he said, reaching out his hand. He let the fingers of his left hand land softly on Sherlock’s torso. He felt the skin prickle beneath him as Sherlock’s entire body came to life with goosebumps. Greg smiled, feeling powerful that his touch could do that. He flicked his eyes up to Sherlock’s face - he was watching him, watching the way his fingers moved and Greg found the innocent expression of wonder on his face enticing. Greg moved his body closer and Sherlock looked up at him at the movement. He shook his head and Greg felt a little confused at the signals. ‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘Can we just...lie here, just touching, not...fucking.’ Sherlock looked embarrassed, almost ashamed of asking for something he wanted. 

Greg’s cheeks quirked in a gentle smile. ‘Of course.’ 

They slid down together, getting comfortable individually before Greg reached over and pulled Sherlock’s lithe body in against his. Sherlock turned completely and they lay face-to-face, their knees twisted and ankles locked in odd shapes beneath the sheets. Greg wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock’s upper body as Sherlock curled in against him, burying his face in the small gap his chin left above his chest. Greg inhaled the scent from Sherlock’s curly hair - cigarette smoke, that Italian aftershave he always wore, and a musky smell that Greg had quickly come to know as ‘Sherlock’. He held him tightly, bringing him as close to his own body as he could get him. 

‘How’s that?’ Greg whispered as the room fell quiet but for their breaths. 

Sherlock hummed in contentment, ‘Exactly what I wanted.’


End file.
